


Lord Voldemort and the Elder Wand

by TheNarwhalAssassin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angry Voldemort, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Dumbledore/Grindelwald if you squint really hard, Elder Wand (Harry Potter), Gen, Grindelwald speaks German, How many tags are normal?, POV Voldemort (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-02 11:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19197553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNarwhalAssassin/pseuds/TheNarwhalAssassin
Summary: Twice, he had turned a wand upon Harry Potter, and twice he had failed. The first was a failure born of carelessness. The second was a failure of British wandlore. Whether it be his own wand or a normal wand, both seemed to fail him. Only one option remained to Lord Voldemort…





	1. Fury and Flight

            Lord Voldemort had been in Austria three times, now.

            The first, when he was just barely in his twenties. He had, like many Englishmen of the day, toured around postwar Europe to see the shattered remains of Germany. He had also, like many wizards of the day (the far superior kind of Englishmen, naturally), visited the great prison of Nurmengard. The allure was almost universal, the prison being not only the site of the greatest duel in wizarding history, but of the greatest Dark wizard of them all. Unlike so many petty wizards, however, the Dark Lord had merely passed through Allied-occupied Austria on a journey to a country much further south.

            He remembered, vividly, the cool summer day, staring up at the foreboding black walls of Nurmengard. He remembered half-listening to a group of Slavic wizards complaining about the German Ministry of Magic before the crowd had erupted in a loud, collective gasp. Looking up, he had seen a pale, stoic face staring down at them from the highest tower window. Gellert Grindelwald himself, robbed of his power, had been looking at them all in contempt.

            He had felt something close to pity that day, mingled with disgust. Lord Voldemort promised himself that he would sooner die than be a tourist attraction, preferably neither, before setting off for Albania, for the Diadem.

            The second time, almost thirty years later, he had passed through the country in agonizing haste. It had been mere hours after _the boy_ had robbed him of his form. The indignancy of his defeat, the sheer humiliation, was almost worse than the pain. He had, once again, passed through Austria on his way to Albania, possessing various European wizards and Apparating closer and closer to the same far-flung forest he had visited in his youth. That visit was not one he liked to think about, if he could help it.

            This third time, sixteen years after the second, was different in so many ways. Firstly, he did not intend to pass through Austria. He would go no further than the Alpine nation. Secondly, he came here not as an unformed youth, nor as a disembodied shadow. He was here, matured and victorious and mighty.

            Or was he?

            Disappointment tainted his journey. The disappointment, the shame of failure. Twice, he had turned a wand upon Harry Potter, and twice he had failed. The first was a failure born of carelessness. The second was a failure of British wandlore. Try as he might to get an answer out of anyone, no one seemed to be able to explain the mysterious power that Potter’s wand held. Whether it be his own wand or a normal wand, both seemed to fail him. Only one option remained to Lord Voldemort…

            He had, in the search for this one remaining option, visited sympathetic wizards throughout Germany and Austria. His command of the language was shaky at best, but he had discerned the murky history of the Elder Wand’s passage from Arcus and Livius to Gregorovitch and finally to Grindelwald. It was a strange experience, meeting wizards who admired his crusade, but did not revere him. They simply thought him an ally in the struggle against Mudblood scum (“ _Schlammblut_ ” was the Germans’ term, and Voldemort much preferred the English). They saw him not as a Lord, but as a comrade.

            It made him feel strange. Angry, of course, but also…

            Lord Voldemort stood now, once again, before Nurmengard. It hadn’t changed in the slightest. Still towering, still dark, still thick with an air of foreboding, one that even Lord Voldemort had to submit himself to. The walls still bore that infamous carving-

_Für das Größere Wohl_

            Unlike his youthful self, Lord Voldemort glided around the fortress walls, unaided by broomstick or magical creature. He had only a vague decades-old memory of Grindelwald’s window to go off of, but he eventually found it at the top of the tallest tower, narrower than even the entrance to the cave that housed Slytherin’s locket.

            Through the black iron bars, he could see the withered form of Gellert Grindelwald. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Lord Voldemort only hoped that the old man had not perished in his sleep. He was weak enough to do so…

            Voldemort, with a lazy flick of his fickle yew wand, became much like mist and wind, and passed effortlessly through the bars. His eyes never left the feeble man in the corner of the cell. The black smoke of his Transfigured body hissed like Nagini was wont to do, and nostalgia stirred in him.

            He landed on the floor with an unceremonious thud of cloth on stone.

            Grindelwald’s emancipated body stirred underneath the blankets and rolled over. Sunken, mismatched eyes gazed at him wearily. A toothless mouth smiled.

            Grindelwald spoke, in a weak voice of mingled German and English.

            “So, you have come. _Ich dachte das würdest du_ …one day. But your journey was pointless. _Ich hatte es nie_.”

            Voldemort raised his wand. “You _lie_!”

            “ _Ich lüge nie, du dummer Junge_.” Grindelwald laughed.

            “The _wand_ , Grindelwald!” Lord Voldemort jabbed his wand violently, and the feeble wizard slammed into the bed. “The wand you stole from Mykew Gregorovitch! Do not lie to Lord Voldemort.”

            “ _Lord_ Voldemort?” Grindelwald laughed, and Voldemort’s fury surged. “Never in _meine wildesten Träume_ would I have even _considered_ calling myself ‘Lord.’”

            “Because nothing you have done would have merited the title.”

            “Because my quest was one of honor, not of power. Everything I did, _alles_ , was _für das Größere Wohl_.” Grindelwald’s mismatched eyes stared, for a moment, into somewhere beyond the decrepit prison cell. “Everything…”

            “There is no such thing as honor or a greater good. Those are childish fantasies invented by the feeble to justify weakness. The only cause to fight for is power.” Voldemort aimed his wand at Grindelwald’s heart. “It is for that reason that you lost. Lost to a feeble old fool like Albus Dumbledore, no less.”

            Grindelwald’s skeletal face lit up in anger. “Albus Dumbledore is a hundred times the wizard you shall ever be.”

            “Albus Dumbledore,” a vicious sneer came to Voldemort’s face, “was a weak, spineless, paltry excuse for a wizard. He was a blood traitor. And it is by my hands that he lies dead and buried.”

            Grindelwald’s face had already been hollow and sunken, but something essential seemed to fade. “Albus is…”

            “Nothing but an unpleasant memory. A footnote in wizarding history. The sad old man who stood in the way of wizardkind’s true potential, and whose only claim to fame was the defeat of an equally sad man.” Voldemort let loose a high, mirthless cackle.

            “Wizardkind’s potential?” A look of disgust fought through Grindelwald’s apparent despair. “You murder wizards by the thousands.”

            “I murder Mudbloods. I murder thieves and wretched pretenders to wizardry. I murder those who are unworthy of wizardkind’s secrets and glories.”

            “You murder your own. You murder wizards capable of the same talent as you merely for the purity of their blood.”

            “An impure wizard is no better than a Muggle. You have lived so long, and led such a passionate crusade against the Muggles, and yet you excuse their filthy offspring?”

            “The _Stummleute_ are stupid and violent, but only because wizards have not exerted a guiding hand, as is necessary.” Grindelwald scowled, “With power comes responsibility. You have cast off responsibility in favor of the blind pursuit of power. _That_ , I feel, is closer to ‘Muggle’ philosophy than anything else.”

            Boiling anger rose up in Voldemort’s veins. How dare he compare Lord Voldemort to a lowly Muggle? Were he not hiding an important secret, he would be dead on the floor this very moment.

            “Where is the Elder Wand, Grindelwald?” Voldemort asked again, pressing his yew wand deep into Grindelwald’s neck.

            “ _Ich hatte es nie, dummkopf_.”

            “It would be a shame, I think, to kill such a historical wizard.” Voldemort’s voice was quiet, barely discernable from the Alpine wind. “But if you do not tell me what I desire, I will have to-”

            Grindelwald did not react at all how Voldemort expected. The feeble old wizard began to laugh loudly, _mockingly_ , scrunching up his eyes and wheezing as if he had just heard a joke. “Kill me, then, Voldemort. _Ich begrüße den Tod_!”

            Grindelwald slumped sideways, staring at Lord Voldemort with mismatched eyes. “But my death will not bring you _was du suchst_. _Es gibt so viel, was du nicht verstehst_.”

            This man, this _relic_ of wizard history, how dare he defy Lord Voldemort? Powerless and feeble, he presumed to stand above Lord Voldemort?

            “Then I-“

            Suddenly, from far beyond his bodily senses, something _pulled_ at Voldemort. Something ephemeral and abstract was tugging at his very _presence_ , beckoning him to return to…to…

            He closed his eyes briefly, and Bellatrix’s wild face appeared in the darkness.

            Voldemort growled as he looked again at the prison cell. Those impudent fools… How dare they call him back to England at a time like this? He had warned them, he had _threatened_ them, that he was not to be called for anything less than Potter. The Malfoys would envy Rowle and Dolohov’s punishment if they were mistaken…

            “ _Töte mich, den_!” Grindelwald’s voice was suddenly commanding, as commanding as he had been in the memories Voldemort had pulled from other feeble old men. “You will not win, you _cannot_ win! That wand will never _ever_ be yours-“

            “ _Avada Kedavra_!” Lord Voldemort shouted, righteous fury filling every ounce of him. The old man mouthed something before he rose from the bed and fell, lifeless. The harsh green light was still burned into Lord Voldemort’s eyes as he turned to the window.

            Though he could not see it with his eyes, he could sense Malfoy Manor’s presence. He passed through the bars again, like smoke, and immediately rushed through the icy Alpine skies of Austria.

            He flew over mountain and forest and farmland and Muggle city. He passed over what he assumed to be the West Frisian Islands before, finally, he was flying above the North Sea. With a midair turn, he Disapparated into choking darkness. He hurdled though the void, and then…

            Lord Voldemort Apparated onto a dark gravel road with a thunderous _crack_ , but didn’t hesitate for a moment. He flew forward like a gust of wind, phasing through the iron gates and smashing open the great front doors of Malfoy Manor.

            He landed in the drawing room and beheld a strange scene. The Malfoy’s great crystal chandelier lay shattered on the dark wood floors. Lucius Malfoy and Fenrir Greyback lay on the ground, unconscious and crumpled. Draco and Narcissa stood, pale and frozen, next to their patriarch, and Bellatrix Lestrange stood alone. His most faithful Death Eater was beside herself, her face blotchy and red with anger, her chest heaving.

            And, unfortunately for the Malfoys, there was no sign of Harry Potter.

            “My Lord!” she shrieked. “My Lord!”

            “Bellatrix…” Voldemort fought to keep the anger from his voice. “Where is Potter?”

            “M-my Lord-“

            “Where is Potter? Where is he?” Voldemort strode forwards, sniffing the stagnant air deeply, “Did I not tell you that I was _not_ to be called unless Harry Potter was before you?”

            Bellatrix was cowering, shaking, heavy-lidded eyes scrunched up in terror. She blubbered uselessly for a moment before Voldemort turned to her kin.

            “Draco! _Narcissa_!” Voldemort scowled at the Stunned Malfoy on the ground. “And Lucius! Of course _he_ is the weakest link of the family tonight! _Rennervate_!”

            Lucius Malfoy stirred sleepily. Lord Voldemort jabbed his wand, and a jet of bright blue light hit the failure in the head. He jumped wildly, his eyes wide and horrified. His hand grasped at his belt, searching for his wand.

            “Your wand is shattered in a field in Surrey, if I recall.” Voldemort spat. “A problem I was tending to before I was summoned here. Now, I ask again, _where is Potter_?”

            Lucius shivered, eyes bulging. Draco was pale, and seemed close to tears. Narcissa spoke, her voice trembling. “G-gone, my Lord.”

            “Gone?”

            “Y-yes, my Lord. Gone.” Narcissa swallowed. “Disapparated.”

            Voldemort stood to his full height and advanced on Narcissa. “I was under the impression that you could not Disapparate without a wand. I was under the impression that you had the _common sense_ to take his wand from him when he was captured. What happened?”

            “H-he stole Bella’s wand. The Weasley Disarmed her.”

            “A blood traitor bested your sister?”

            Narcissa nodded, breathing shakily.

            “And you did nothing?“

            Narcissa bowed her head in shame, trembling.

            “The House-Elf.”

            Voldemort whipped around to see some of Bellatrix’s haughtiness having returned. She spoke with disgust. “Malfoy’s _House-Elf_ Apparated into the dungeons and saved them. He crashed the chandelier, my Lord. Disarmed my sister and Disapparated with Potter.”

            Bellatrix’s words echoed for a moment. Lord Voldemort stood very still, turning his wand in his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, and somewhat strained. “So…you are to tell me that my _most_ faithful, _most_ trusted, _most fearsome_ Death Eater was overcome by blood traitors and a _House-Elf_?”

            Bellatrix did not move. If she had expected any recognition for telling her Lord the details of Potter’s escape, she no longer did.

            Voldemort turned and pointed his wand at Draco. “ _Crucio_!”

            Draco fell to his knees, screaming, face contorted in agony. His mother shrieked, trying to hold her son close amidst his thrashing. Lucius stood there trembling, too scared to take his eyes off of his master for even a moment.

            “My Lord!” Bellatrix screamed, in shock rather than anything else. Voldemort turned his wand to her with a roar of fury. She, too, fell to the ground in pain.

            “ _Once again_ , you have failed me! Once again, the teamwork of Lestrange and Malfoy has _failed Lord Voldemort_!” Voldemort screamed, pointing his wand at Lucius and slamming him into the wall with a pathetic _thud_. “What must I _do_ to get this family to produce results?! _And where is Wormtail_?!”

            No one answered. Bellatrix and Draco were screaming in pain. Narcissa and Lucius were petrified. Voldemort repeated, “Where is Wormtail, Lucius?”

            Lucius was silent, sweating profusely, eyes bulging. Voldemort flicked his wand violently, and Lucius ducked like a filthy Muggle. “ _Accio Peter Pettigrew_!”

            A series of thuds resounded from the floor below, steadily drifting upwards. Something limp slammed into the walls of Malfoy Manor before it rushed into the drawing room and fell to the floor at Voldemort’s feet. Peter Pettigrew’s corpse, purple-faced and rigid, lay in front of its former master.

            Voldemort howled, and watched as Narcissa and Lucius joined their kin in pain. Their agony was barely a hundredth of Voldemort’s rage. How could this happen? The Malfoys had promised that their manor was a fortress, that escape was impossible for even Harry Potter. Voldemort had not put his complete confidence in them, of course, but they had been bested by a _House-Elf_. How had they managed to fall this far? How had he, at one point, considered Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange to be his best and brightest?

            If there was a theme to the first years of his rebirth, it was that the Voldemort of the past was an utter _fool_. Those he had trusted were inept, and all his considerations were for naught. Of all the anger in Malfoy Manor tonight, the most turbulent was directed inwards.

            “Lord Voldemort does not tolerate incompetence, Malfoy!” Voldemort slashed his wand at Lucius, and a deep cut appeared along his forehead. Blood dripped down his face. “Lord Voldemort does not tolerate it! Especially not from a man who has failed so often and so _extravagantly_!”

            “M-m-my Lord…” Lucius moaned. Voldemort jabbed his wand at his face, and he flew back as if punched. A family heirloom, a bronze bust of some distant Malfoy, flew off a shelf and began slamming itself into Lucius’s bloody face repeatedly.

            “And Bellatrix! How I trusted you! I once called you my most faithful, my most treasured servant!” Voldemort waved his wand in a wide arc, and Bellatrix’s back bent to the point of breakage. “And yet you, _again_ , fail to defeat an unexceptional teenage boy! Again you fail because of adolescent luck!”

            Bellatrix sobbed, crying ashamed tears. At least, unlike Malfoy, she wasn’t begging mercy. She knew that she had failed.

            “Narcissa! Draco! You two are pureblood wizards, but what were you doing when Potter stood here victorious?” Voldemort Cruciated them both. “You shame your blood! You shame your name! But what else could I expect from the boy who had to run crying to Severus Snape to kill Dumbledore for him?!”

            As Voldemort’s admonishment echoed though the cavernous drawing room, the family of failures writhed on the ground. He was panting, breathless by virtue of his anger. He was angry at them, angry at Potter, angry at Grindelwald, angry at _himself_.

            He had trusted the untrustworthy, and failed to intimidate Grindelwald. He felt as if he might burst into ashamed tears like Bellatrix, if he had any tears to shed. Once again, the Elder Wand dangled out of reach, like it had for all these months. And now his only lead was dead, rotting in the highest tower of Nurmengard.

            And so, with several violent slashes and jabs of his yew wand, his only faithful servant in this house, perhaps his only faithful servant left in the _world_ , the failures were punished. If there was any consolation to Lord Voldemort’s night of losses, it was that the Malfoys’ screams of agony were music to his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "Stummleute" essentially means "silent people", referring to how Muggles cannot cast spells (i.e. they are silent in spellcasting matters). It's not perfect, but you have to work with what you've got.
> 
> Chapter two will be released within the next few days. Criticism and comments are strongly, strongly encouraged.


	2. The Tomb

            The starry sky had barely changed throughout the night. They serenely twinkled down on Malfoy Manor, unaware of the violence of the last few hours.

            A man, savage-looking and wild, stared up at the stars through a window. He stood in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, picking at something in his sharp brown teeth. Growling softly, inhumanly, Fenrir Greyback walked away from the window and smiled at the scene before him.

            Four bodies lay on the polished wood floor, splayed out uncomfortably.

            The smallest, a woman with long blonde hair, stirred absently, softly whimpering. A quick look at her face revealed deep, bloody gashes.

            Next to her lay a boy, perhaps just a stone’s throw away from his twenties, moaning in pain. An arm was bent at an odd angle, and his robes were torn and bloody.

            Between them was a man who, judging by his similar blonde locks and pointed chin, could only be the boy’s father. But whether father and son had similar faces was unknowable, for the man’s face was a shocking mess of bruises and cuts. He, unlike his kin, was silent and unmoving.

            And finally, a haughty-looking woman lay apart from the others. She had a hand pressed tightly to a deep wound in her arm. Her injuries were the least severe, yet perplexingly, she sobbed and raged the loudest.

            “Shut up, Lestrange.” Greyback laughed. The now-wandless witch had seen fit to Stun his gang of Snatchers for nothing, and so the werewolf relished in her agony.

            “Fenrir, please.” A high, cold voice pierced through the air, silencing Greyback instantly. A quick glance showed that it had sounded from an armchair turned to the crackling fireplace. “Show some decency,”

            Bellatrix Lestrange laughed shakily, but a flick of a wand had her screeching in pain.

            Lord Voldemort sat in the armchair, watching the fire intensely. Every so often, he was forced to renew the Malfoys’ punishment, but he had largely been left to mull over the events of the last few hours in mocking silence.

            While a rage for the Malfoys still burned within him, it had cooled vastly. They were an incompetent bunch, for sure, but their failure was peripheral to Voldemort. Indeed, something far worse had been pressing into him like a weight all night long.

            Gellert Grindelwald, the last master of the Elder Wand, had defied Lord Voldemort. A lowly relic of the past, powerless and feeble, had refused to offer even a hint of the wand’s whereabouts. How dare he? The indignancy of it made Voldemort’s muscles tense, and made the Malfoy’s magical pain increase by several degrees.

            Grindelwald was unafraid. That fact was undeniable and, though Voldemort would sooner die than admit this, terrifying. An ant had stared a dinosaur in the eyes and mocked it. Mocked its title. Mocked its ambition. Mocked it, and died without fear,

            “ _Kill me, then, Voldemort. Ich begrüße den Tod! But my death will not bring you was du suchst. Es gibt so viel, was du nicht verstehst_.”

            He welcomed death, did he? His death would not elucidate the problem, would it? It was true, evidently, that there was so much that Voldemort did not understand. What perverse magic had given a half-dead failure the courage to defy the greatest sorcerer in all of history?

            But questions like that were only salt in the wound. Voldemort had failed in his quest for the Elder Wand. He had spent months prowling throughout Germany and Austria, following even the smallest leads, and it was all for naught. Grindelwald, the linchpin to the mystery, had seen fit to refuse Voldemort the conclusion of his work. And the shame of failure stung like the Killing Curse sixteen years ago, the curse that had started this whole sordid affair.

            “Greyback.” Voldemort leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. “Greyback, what wandmakers remain in Britain?”

            Greyback grunted in thought. “There’s Jimmy Kiddel in Diagon Alley. And I heard from Scabior that some Transylvanian wandmakers were setting up a shop in Ulster.”

            “And beyond?”

            “None, my Lord.”

            Voldemort sighed. “Where did you get your wand, Greyback?”

            “Gregorovitch Wands. Crakitt Market.”

            “Of course…” Voldemort laughed, “Of course you did. Gregorovitch and Ollivander. The greatest wandmakers in history. Useless fools…”

            Greyback stood silently for a moment, obviously confused. “My Lord?”

            Voldemort growled in anger. Anger at Greyback’s uselessness. Anger at the wandmakers’ incompetence. Anger at his own failure.

            But there was also a racing mind. It was not a Slytherin trait to merely pout and rage in the face of failure. Voldemort had mused on his failure, but he had also mused on what little he could glean from his journey. What little leads had been left to him…

            The Elder Wand was out there, definitely, and Grindelwald had been its last master. Voldemort didn’t require Legilimency for that. The litany of stories from Grindelwald’s height of power all but confirmed his ownership of the Elder Wand. So where was it?

            Hidden in Grindelwald’s prison cell? Under magical lock and key? Being watched by some disloyal Ministry agents?

            Hidden somewhere, somewhere far-flung and distant, by Grindelwald’s conqueror, Albus Dumbledore?

            Dumbledore…Dumbledore…

            Voldemort’s jaw slackened. The prickling rage faded. An image came to Voldemort. A lone dragonfly, lazily hovering over the lake at Hogwarts. Of course…

            Of course. It was obvious. Grindelwald had tried, in vain, but his prolific career was his downfall. Voldemort had been sitting for his N.E.W.T. exams when it happened, but he couldn’t help but listen to every retelling of the “greatest duel in history”.

            Dumbledore had bested Grindelwald over fifty years ago. Dumbledore had defeated him and locked him in his own prison. And if Grindelwald _was_ the holder of the Elder Wand, as Gregorovitch’s memories confirmed, then the only logical conclusion was that…

            Voldemort walked briskly to the werewolf. “Greyback, I would like you to watch over the Malfoys. I have business to attend to.”

            “Happily, my Lord.” Greyback smiled, baring his teeth.

            “If they try to leave the house, I think I shall offer you Draco.”

            Greyback laughed wildly. Narcissa yelped as though she had been struck. Draco went completely silent. Before Greyback could respond, Voldemort had turned and left the drawing room, cloak trailing behind him.

            The Wand was at Hogwarts. The Wand was at Hogwarts. The Wand was at Hogwarts. Voldemort kept repeating this in his head, shocked at the simplicity of it. Dumbledore had taken the wand from Grindelwald. Perhaps he had somehow wrested its loyalty, perhaps he had not, perhaps Grindelwald _himself_ wasn’t the true master. He had stolen it, not killed for it.

            But Voldemort had killed. Oh, how he had killed. Gregorivitch, Grindelwald, Dumbledore, all possible masters of the Wand were dead at his hands. Whichever one held the Wand’s loyalty was dead at his hands. And there was only one place in the world that Dumbledore would hide anything. He had, after all, hidden the Philosopher’s Stone there, too…

            Voldemort smiled in the darkness outside Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix and Lucius’s failure, outrageous as it was, hadn’t interfered in his quest for the Wand at all. The Wand was here, so close to him. It had been within Apparition distance this whole time…

            For the second time today, Lord Voldemort Disapparated and Apparated with a _crack_ in the air.

            Voldemort had not been in Hogsmeade in several years, but the village had not changed much. It was dark and asleep, no signs of life anywhere on the main street. The faintest glimmer of dawn was on the horizon. Muddy remnants of snow crowded along buildings, melting into the wetness of the road.

            Voldemort rushed forward, looking up. Just beyond the vast stretch of treetops, he could see the tip of Hogwarts’s Astronomy Tower. Not even a year ago, Albus Dumbledore had fallen from his school’s tallest tower and landed, dead and useless, on the grounds below. This was a testament to his absence, to his defeat, that Lord Voldemort was strolling onto the Hogwarts grounds for the first time in decades.

            Voldemort quickly rose into the air. He didn’t so much fly as take a colossal leap. Midair, he strained his thoughts and felt Severus Snape’s mind stir within the castle. He was wide-awake, pacing in the Headmaster’s office, musing on…something unimportant to the matter at hand.

            “ _Severus_.”

            A brief surprise surged through Snape’s cold mind. “ _Yes, my Lord?_ ”

            “ _I will be at the castle gates shortly. Greet me._ ”

            Snape’s presence in Voldemort’s mind faded, just as he daintily fell to the cool earth in front of the winged boars in front of Hogwarts. Hogwarts, his one true home.

            The castle was dark, a scarce few windows glowing in the early morning darkness. Imagine if the staff knew their most heinous enemy was standing calmly at the school gates. Voldemort smiled at the thought of their indignant faces.

            He didn’t have to wait for long at the gates. A lone lantern bobbed in the dark, coming closer and closer. Soon, Severus Snape’s face appeared in the warm light, and the gates swung open.

            “My Lord.” Snape bowed.

            “Severus.” Lord Voldemort nodded deeply. “I trust that I am not keeping you from more important matters?”

            “Nothing is more important than you, my Lord.”

            The two walked up the steep path to Hogwarts, Snape holding the lantern aloft with his off-hand, wand drawn in the other.

            “Do you expect danger, Severus?”

            Snape’s face was impassive. “Rubeus Hagrid has been forced out of Hogwarts, but he held some sway over the creatures of the forest. The oaf may have encouraged them to attack.”

            Voldemort looked to the dark foliage on either side of the path. “What do I have to fear from centaurs and Acromantulas?”

            “Hagrid was known to illegally breed new creatures. Dangerous ones.” Snape smiled very slightly. “Draco Malfoy still complains about the ‘Blast-Ended Skrewts’. Is something the matter, my Lord?”

            Snape had seen Voldemort’s face contort in fury. “The _Malfoys_ , Severus. Once again, they failed me. Potter was in Malfoy Manor earlier tonight, and the family let him escape.”

            “He escaped?”

            “Oh yes.” Voldemort said. “He escaped with the help of a Weasley. And a _House-Elf_.”

            Snape snorted. “How pathetic.”

            As they came to the edge of the lake, Voldemort stopped and turned to Snape.

            “Severus, when they laid Dumbledore to rest, where was he buried?”

            Snape’s brow just barely furrowed. He turned and pointed across the lake. A white marble tomb rested on the familiar lakeside. “There, my Lord.”

            Voldemort felt excitement well up within him. “And what of his wand, Severus? Did they bury it with him?”

            “That is the custom. I wouldn’t think Minerva McGonagall would change it. Dumbledore was venerated, of course.”

            “Of course, of course…” It took all Voldemort had not to beam triumphantly. He had found it. He had found it, at long last.

            “My Lord?”

            “I shall join you in the castle shortly. Leave me now.”

            Snape gave a short bow and began a slow ascent to Hogwarts. Voldemort watched his long black cloak billow in the wind for a moment. Severus had proven himself the most trustworthy of all the Death Eaters, but the fact remained that the quest for the Elder Wand was a personal quest.

            With a wide wave of his faithful yew wand, a Disillusionment Charm fell over Voldemort’s body. His reborn form disappeared into a perfect facsimile of his beloved Hogwarts grounds.

            He slowly paced the perimeter of the lake, letting the past overtake his senses for a moment. Around sixty years ago, he had sat on the water’s edge, half-listening to Avery and Lestrange complain about Mudblood students while Rosier traced something in the air with his wand. He had held up a pale hand, commanding his followers to silence, before discussing his fascination with the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The look of fascination, of delight, on their faces as he spoke of the _potential_ of Slytherin’s monster…

            And then came to Dumbledore’s tomb. Recollections of days long passed vanished. Once Potter was dead and Hogwarts was truly his, he would have to remove the offending block of marble. It was tantamount to desecration.

            Voldemort raised his yew wand, his most enduring companion, and the tomb split in two with a sharp _crack_. With another subtle movement, the burial wrappings on the corpse fell as ribbons.

            And, thus, his yew wand had outlived its usefulness.

            Albus Dumbledore was still thin, still long. His face was still serene, so infuriatingly serene. Even in death, nothing broke his calm. Voldemort slid along his body like a serpent, searching his body for…

            There it was. After months and months of tireless searching, after much unneeded death of some of wizardkind’s best and brightest, there it was. They had placed the Elder Wand underneath Dumbledore’s long, folded fingers. Had they never considered hiding history’s deadliest wand? Or had they thought Lord Voldemort unable, or unwilling, to pry open his enemy’s tomb?

            Voldemort seized the Elder Wand, brushing against Dumbledore’s cold flesh. He raised it high into the air, watching the dazzling array of sparks fall onto the corpse’s crooked nose. The wand felt colder than his faithful yew, but it was of little concern. He, Lord Voldemort, had the Elder Wand at last, and amidst the swooping feeling of triumph pulsing through him, he knew for an undeniable fact that Harry Potter was finished.

            A cold, high cackle swept through the grounds as sunlight burst over the mountains. Victory was, rather literally, _at hand_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was the story. It's short, but I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for reading.
> 
> And do excuse the pun at the end. I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Criticism and comments are strongly, strongly encouraged.


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